


Title

by yavannanirvana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:59:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yavannanirvana/pseuds/yavannanirvana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John learns something about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Title

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've ever written! Any feedback would be appreciated! :)

John yawned loudly and closed his laptop screen. He scooted forward in his armchair and corrected the terrible posture he had been sitting in for the past hour. Arching his spine, he stretched his body and reached for his toes in an effort to loosen his thighs.  


It had been a long day of following the indefatigable Sherlock Holmes around London, and that would take the energy out of even the most active man. They had been canvassing the homeless network that Sherlock so often relied on for leads on a case they had been working on for weeks. It was boring by Sherlock's standards, but there had been a lull in exciting ones lately. Sherlock had been reluctant to accept even this case. It was only through excessive poking and prodding that John was able to convince his flatmate to consider it. John had been unable to bear the thought of yet another day with minimal communication and maximum violin-playing. Not that he minded the quiet or the music; he simply missed the casual banter and the meaningful discussions that he seemed to have only with Sherlock.  


Grimacing, he arched his back further, waiting for the crack in his spine that always relaxed him.  


“You should try twisting your torso,” Sherlock said without looking away from the ceiling.  


John tried it, and he was rewarded with a satisfying crack. “How did you – never mind.”  


Sherlock sighed and steepled his fingers. His upward gaze didn't waver as he explained, “Really, John, it's simple observation. You attempt to crack your back every night and fail until you twist. Besides, your movement is irritating. I'm trying to think.”  


Grumbling under his breath, John retreated to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. He glanced over the newspaper he had bought this morning but forgotten to read as he waited for the kettle.  


“John!”  


“What, Sherlock?”  


“Come here.”  


John rolled his eyes. “Whatever you want to say can wait until I'm finished making us some tea.” Sherlock didn't reply, but John knew he was scowling, probably with his arms and legs crossed. When the kettle finally whistled, John prepared two cups of tea and carefully brought them to the living room. Just as he'd expected, Sherlock still lay on his back on the couch, but he had his arms and legs folded. His grimace, however, faded once John placed a mug on the coffee table near his head.  


“You know I won't drink that,” he said petulantly.  


“Funnily enough, I'd observed that you never drink the tea I make you.”  


Sherlock sat up, looking worried. “Not good? Am I supposed to drink it even if I think it's revolting?”  


“Why the sudden concern?” John settled back into his armchair. “I've spent a year cleaning up your cold tea, it shouldn't matter now.” He raised his mug in a mock toast. “To Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant man in the world who still doesn't know his manners! Tsk tsk, what would Mycroft say?”  


“Now you're just being melodramatic,” Sherlock scoffed. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, gaze traveling past John and into the wall behind him. John knew Sherlock would be pondering the case past dawn, so he got up to leave him to it. However, as he was headed for his bedroom, he saw Sherlock pick up the mug and raise it to his mouth.

~ 

John woke to the welcome sound of pots banging and a kettle whistling. For a moment, he imagined he was back at home, that his mother was cooking breakfast for him and Harry. The memory was dispelled, however, when the sound of a small explosion echoed throughout the flat.  


He jumped out of bed and hurried to the kitchen, despite the fact he was wearing only a thin t-shirt and boxers; he wondered what kind of experiments Sherlock was conducting in his absence. What he found was a flustered Sherlock cleaning out pieces of metal and plastic from the microwave. “I found my phone,” he said, smiling sheepishly.  


“More experiments?” John inquired tiredly. “You really couldn't wait until I was actually awake?” He grabbed a rag and attempted to wipe away the sludge that had poured out of the fried phone, but it was useless. He would have to ask Mrs. Hudson for a new microwave.  


“Actually, I was trying to boil an egg. Come to think of it, what happened to that egg... Experiment for another time I suppose.”  
John was bewildered. Sherlock barely ate even when he wasn't on a case. Why would he suddenly be making breakfast? He asked Sherlock as much.  


“I wasn't making it for myself, you bloody idiot. It was for you.”  


“But you have a case! Shouldn't you be sprawled on the couch telling me not to breathe?”  


Sherlock waved away John's protests. “I solved that one around 3:30 this morning. I also flipped through the new case file Lestrade gave you and solved that one in a matter of minutes. Anderson was on forensics; I expected he missed something crucial, and he did. As a matter of fact-”  


“Sherlock.” John wasn't in the mood to hear about the details of Anderson's many mistakes. “Why the hell are you making me breakfast?” He stepped closer to his flatmate, poked him in the chest through his thin dressing gown. “What are you playing at?”  


“No games. I made pancakes and tea without a hitch, see?” He held up a plate of fluffy pancakes and a mug of tea brewed just the way John liked it.  


“Keep in mind that I have military training. If this is poisoned...” John threatened as he took a seat at the cluttered table. Sherlock set down his meal and watched him expectantly. John took a bite of the pancakes warily. “These aren't that bad, actually.”  


Sherlock beamed. “I followed the recipe exactly. Whoever says cooking is an experiment is even more of an idiot than Anderson. Food should be perfect.”  


“You should cook for me more often, then.”  


“Unlikely.”  


John stood and brought his dish to the sink. “Not even if I asked nicely?”  


Sherlock stood as well and leaned on the counter near the sink. He studied John with his analytical eyes. “Depends on how nicely you asked, I suppose.” John thought he saw Sherlock's gaze flicker to his mouth, but he brushed away the thought.  


“Right, then.” He was suddenly very conscious of his state of undress. He tried to push past Sherlock and return to his room, but the taller man held him by the shirtsleeve with an iron grip. John resisted for a moment, but gave up when he realized Sherlock was determined to keep him in the room. He turned and crossed his arms to keep some space between them. “What do you want, Sherlock?”  


Sherlock didn't answer, but his fingers smoothed John's sleeve. He loomed over his flatmate, his gaze roving from his hair to his eyes to his mouth. John shivered at the scrutiny but focused on the wall at the far end of the room. “Really, can I go back to my room? I'd like to put on some clothes.”  


“Tedious,” Sherlock murmured as he traced the side of John's face with the tip of a finger.  


“Um, right. What, exactly, is it that you're doing?”  


“Experiment.” Sherlock dipped his head suddenly and pressed his nose to the side of John's neck. His large hands drifted to John's shoulders, keeping him from moving. John fidgeted nonetheless.  


“What kind of experiment? Tell me and I'll gladly help – after I've put on some trousers.” Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, tickling John's chest. “Really, Sherlock, this is quite uncomfortable.”  


Finally, Sherlock pulled back to look at him. John stared right back, originally intending to project his annoyance at the invasion of his privacy. But Sherlock's startlingly blue eyes soon leeched the conviction out of his purpose. He was aware that his pulse was racing and his hand was itching to bury itself in the unruly dark curls spilling over Sherlock's forehead. Confused by this reaction, he breathed deeply and turned away, self-consciously walking back to the safety of his room.  


He collapsed on his bed, still trying to catch his breath. Why on earth did he lose it like that?

~ 

A few hours later, he finally found the courage to make his way out to the living room. Sherlock sat on the couch with his violin and bow in hand, though he wasn't playing. However, as son as John settled into his armchair with a newspaper, Sherlock dragged his bow across the strings in a less than masterful manner. John cringed. If this was the price he had to pay for rejecting Sherlock's strange advances, so be it.  


However, he could no longer concentrate on the paper with thoughts from that morning whirling through his head. What experiment had Sherlock been conducting, and how did it involve him? Why did he react the way he had? Was there an ulterior motive behind making breakfast? After all, the last time Sherlock made him tea, it was spiked with a hallucinogen. These questions relentlessly vied for his attention.  


“Could you stop playing that damn thing for five minutes??” John finally burst out. Sherlock ignored him and continued his haphazard improvisation.  


Summoning all of his anger and courage, John stomped over to the couch and grabbed the instrument from underneath Sherlock's chin. He expected Sherlock to be furious, but instead he stood calmly and held out his hand without saying a word. John took a step back. “I'll only return this to you if you promise me you'll stop this terrible composition of yours.”  


Sherlock matched him and took a step forward. “I wasn't composing.”  


“Whatever it was you were doing. Playing, ravishing the instrument, whatever.” He held the violin behind his back as Sherlock stepped dangerously close to him.  


“Interesting diction, John. Ravishing. Makes a man wonder what his flatmate is thinking about.” He slowly reached an arm around John's body. His hand was aiming for his violin, but inadvertently brushed across the small of John's back before finding the polished wood. John shivered at the contact, but also tightened his grip on the violin.  


Sherlock's eyes roved across John's face, analyzing every nuance of his expressions. John reveled in the attention and took the opportunity to study Sherlock's untidy curls, high cheekbones, and cupid's-bow lips. When Sherlock tugged the violin toward him, John's body went with it and he didn't resist. Sherlock's free hand rose and gently touched John's face again, this time cupping his cheek. John closed his eyes and wondered why he enjoyed having his male flatmate touch him.  


Sherlock took the initiative and pressed the violin into John's back, forcing him to step even closer. Their chests were touching, and all John had to do was tilt his head back. Sherlock leaned down, his full lips parting slightly-  


“Really, boys, I've been calling you for ages!” Mrs. Hudson came huffing up the stairs, a microwave teetering in her arms. “I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper for goodness's sake!” She placed the microwave on the floor by the kitchen and finally turned to her tenants. She took in John's mottled flush and Sherlock's awkward fiddling with his newly recaptured violin. “Oh dear, have I interrupted something?”  


Sherlock grinned. “Why don't you make a deduction, dear Mrs. Hudson?” John glared at him, but he didn't meet his eyes.  


Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms. “Judging by John's color, you two either had a heated domestic or an impassioned kiss. You know what they say about love and hate and a thin line!” She smiled knowingly at Sherlock.  


John sputtered, “Mrs. Hudson, I assure you-”  


“I need no assurances, John Watson, not from you. I've seen you two the past year, I know exactly what's going on here, don't you worry.” She looked at them expectantly until Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head toward the stairs. “Oh, yes of course! I'll just head back to my flat now. You two have a good time then!” She smiled wickedly and hurried down.  


Sherlock set down the violin on the couch. “Shall we... Pick up where we left off?” He shyly took a step toward John with a small smile.  


Shaking his head, John collapsed on the couch, deliberately distancing himself from Sherlock. “I just need some time to think.”  


“Really, John? You can't think when I need you to on a crime scene, but when every part of me wants to ravish you, it's all you can do!” Sherlock plopped onto the couch right next to John, close enough for their thighs to touch.  


“In case you hadn't noticed, I'm kind of having a sexuality crisis here! I've been straight all my life, and now there's you, and I really don't know what to make of it.” He took his head in his hands. What would his mother say? She still refused to accept Harry's revelation, and it had been 12 years.  


“I find sexuality labels exceedingly tedious.” Sherlock placed a hand on John's knee. “I know you're interested in me, John. There's no use in denying it. Your pulse skyrocketed when we were in the kitchen.” That explains his nosing at my neck, John thought. “In fact, I can see that you're breathing faster and your posture is tenser now that I'm touching you.”  


Consciously slowing his breathing, John asked, “Why now? What prompted you to start this experiment of yours today?”  


Sherlock removed his hand from John's knee. “You... Cleared my mind last night. I mean, you always do. I just noticed it last night. For the first time, I mean. You were making tea, and you were so relaxed that I couldn't help but relax as well.” He cleared his throat nervously. “This isn't merely an experiment, you know. I mean, I do have feelings as well. Although if you didn't reciprocate, I would have no problem with returning to our previous arrangement. You wouldn't even know the difference.”  


John smiled slightly into his hands. This was the closest to incoherent that he had ever heard the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. It was slightly gratifying that the detective's anxiety was all a result of John's so-far negative response. He sighed. What have you gotten yourself into, Watson? he asked himself as he turned toward his flatmate.  


“Sherlock,” he began formally. “We're flatmates.” He watched as Sherlock's expression faltered a bit. “You're my best friend.” His face fell completely. “I don't want to ruin the relationship we already have, that we've so painstakingly grown.” Sherlock moved over on the couch a bit, and John's leg felt cold where it was no longer pressed against Sherlock's. “Look at me.” Sherlock obliged, peeking up through his eyelashes, seeming shy again.  


John held his gaze and scooted closer to him on the couch. He took Sherlock's hand in his and admitted, “I wouldn't mind making our relationship a little more intimate.” He leaned in and captured Sherlock's lips with his own, catching him completely by surprise. Sherlock's hands instinctively wound around John's body and settled on the small of his back. One of John's hands slipped around Sherlock's neck, and the other tangled in the luscious curls clustered on Sherlock's head. Although their hands were everywhere and touched everything they could, the kiss was surprisingly chaste and sweet.  


Sherlock finally pulled away and rested his forehead against John's. “That was not what I expected. At all.” He stroked John's face and rested a hand on his chest. “It was very nice though, and I'd like for it to happen again.”  


Grinning, John replied, “Me too. As soon as possible.”  


Sherlock stood and held his hand out to his flatmate. “Allow me to escort you to my bedroom.” John took the proffered hand and sprinted for Sherlock's room, dragging the taller man behind him.

~ 

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson smiled at the intermittent laughter wafting through her ceiling. “My boys,” she said to herself. “It was about time.”


End file.
